


To Each Their Own

by anderscones



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Crossover, Other, Time Travel, universe jumping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-17 11:52:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anderscones/pseuds/anderscones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes and Watson find themselves in an odd place- it seems they have jumped universes!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Cross over time-traveling AU. Yeah.

“Holmes?” Watson gasped as he awoke in a rubbish bin. He sat up, assessing the dirty surroundings he sat in. His eyes settled on his long-time colleague doing the same directly to his left. They both heard the street roaring, and they exchanged confused glances. Holmes began kneeling to peer out of the top of the bin, and saw very advanced versions of their transportation that they were in only moments ago. The cars were shiny, sleek, and well protected, which was a large contrast in comparison to the open-sided vehicles the two were used to. People walked down the street in outfits he had never seen before, most of them fiddling with small, rectangular devices in their hands and ears. He frowned and tried to rationalize every thought that ran through his never-ending mind. Holmes failed to calm his brain completely and glanced down at Watson, who owned a terrified look.

                “Watson, I ask that you are not alarmed, but I fear that we are not going to make it to the scene.”  Holmes stated evenly to his companion.

                Watson maneuvered himself into an identical position and looked onto the road. “Wha-,“ he sputtered. “Holmes, what is this.”

                “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

 

 

                “JOHN!” Sherlock roared from his seat on the sofa.

                Immediately, John appeared from within their bathroom with a concerned expression. As soon as he saw Sherlock, he rolled his eyes impatiently; nothing was wrong of course. Sherlock sat on the sofa, not even glancing from his reading. John had no idea why he expected anything else.

                “Oh, good. Hand me that letter,” Sherlock demanded as he pointed lazily across the room. “Please.” He added when he noticed John’s irritation.

                “Yes, your highness,” John sighed quietly to himself. He turned to where his flat-mate was pointing and almost let out a frustrated yell. “Sherlock, this is literally a stack of papers and post.”

                “Yes, thank you, John. I didn’t notice. It’s the one with the ink bleeding out of the corner.” Sherlock sassed from behind the newspaper he held.

                John contemplated for a moment before rifling through the stack on the mantle quickly, looking for an ink stain. He reached the bottom and remembered that it was Sherlock, and the stain would probably be tiny. An impatient sigh came from behind him, and he looked again, ignoring Sherlock, very carefully. A small envelope with an almost nonexistent ink blot on the edge appeared in the middle of the pile; John grabbed it and took it over to his companion. John very briefly noticed that it hadn’t yet been opened, and almost expected the words that were already coming out of Sherlock’s mouth.

                “Read it to me.” said Sherlock.

                “Right,” John agreed dryly.

                “ _Dear Sherlock,_ [Informal. Thought so. Continue.]

 _As I’m sure you are aware, Helen and I have hit it off in the past few months._ [Oh, yes. He finally found someone who hasn’t cheated on him. Yet.] (Sherlock, please.) [Yes, yes.] _I am happy to announce that we have been engaged and that our wedding date has been set for-_ (Sherlock, how long has this been sat in that pile?) [A few months. Not very long.] (Really? Didn’t you think that it would have been a good idea to open something sent from _Greg_ immediately? He never sends us mail. Sherlock, seriously?) [Just finish reading it, John.] – _for the seventeenth of December. Both you and John are invited to the list of events that are attached to this letter. We hope to see the two of you at them all._

_-Gregory and Helen Lestrade”_

                “Right. So, you do realize that half of these events are already past us, Sherlock?” asked John, dropping the papers into his partner’s lap.

                “He’ll have left the important ones for closer dates,” He replied loosely. “It’s only August, John.”

                John spun around incredulously to return to the bathroom and continue his previous activities. “Sometimes,” he murmured to himself. “You really are a bastard.”

 

 

Watson and Holmes hurried down pavement, not knowing where they planned on being. They were shot worried glances, mostly from looking so distraught themselves and partly because of the dirty attire they dawned. They exchanged quick phrases with each other for most of their walk. Neither of them had any idea on what to do, and they ended up at the New Scotland Yard, and were very, very confused.

“Holmes, what. The. Hell,” Watson exclaimed, eyeing the modern building. “What the _hell_ is going on. Where are we?”

“As well as when?” Holmes asked, glancing at a passerby with a newspaper. “August eighth, 2013.” He whispered.

“No. That’s impossible. Someone is doing… something. A trick. Someone is trying to fool us.” Watson replied back, a grin of denial on his face.

“Quite a bit of effort put into trying to fool a man who has no image and another who is just a decorated war veteran, wouldn’t you think?” quizzed Holmes. Watson stared, the smirk fading from his lips.

“And call Sherlock,” a man’s voiced boomed. “We’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t, Donovan.”

Holmes spun around at the mention of his own name, Watson following suit. A silver-haired man was sliding into a dark car, leaving an exasperated woman in his wake on the pavement. “Oh, yes. Sherlock Holmes, our king. Do everything for him, Sally; He’ll be a pissy git if you don’t.” She mocked as the car drove off. She pulled out one of the shiny devices everyone seemed to possess and began fiddling with the face. Watson stared dumbfounded, barely registering Holmes pacing over to her slowly, pretending to ignore her as he passed.

“Hello, John. Tell your _lordship,”_ she hissed. “That we have a news on that case for him to invade.” Watson watched wearily as Holmes pulled his pocket blade out and sliced his ankle shallowly -though causing quite an amount of blood to gush out- and laid himself on the concrete. He started gasping in pain next to the woman, who immediately turned around. “Look, Watson, I have to go. Lestrade is on his way to the case and I’ll text you the details.” She knelt next to him. “What is it?” she soothed as Holmes pointed towards his ankle.

Watson immediately stepped in, knowing that the window of time before the woman asked how it happened was coming to a close. So, straightened his waist coat and followed his friends lead. “What’s this? Is he hurt? I’m a doctor.” He crouched down and looked at Holmes’ ankle. He could feel a pair of eyes on him and looked up at the lady across from him. “Do you know where to find a bandage?”

She stood, looking very confused. “Um. Yeah. Just bring him inside.” Donovan led them towards the large building. “How exactly did that happen?” the woman questioned. Both men pretended to not hear her. “Er, is there a… fair in town? They do those quite a bit you know, but I haven’t heard of any lately…” she trailed off. They still ignored her.  Sally referenced Watson “It’s just a bit odd to see men walking around so casually in three-piece suits.”

“I think he looks quite nice.” Holmes interjected from Watson’s shoulder, limping his way along and through the front door. Watson was grateful for being saved.

“I just meant because he’s a bit scuffed. I only know of one person who decides to dress nicely and then ruin it completely by diving into dumpsters and what-not.” Sally replied.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied over her shoulder to the limping man, leading them into a set of cubicles. “He just doesn’t know how to behave. It’s really annoying. I don’t care what anyone else says to praise Sherlock; he’s an insufferable child 90% of the time. The other 10% is when he refuses to talk to anyone, which is entirely less annoying.” Sally replied harshly.

A flash of hurt and damaged dignity spread across Holmes’ face as Watson sat him in a seat. “He really can’t be that bad. Probably just misunderstood.”

“You’re a fan, aren’t you?” She asked incredulously, handing Watson the first aid kit she pulled from a drawer.

Holmes sniffed. “No. I just suggest that assuming someone with erratic manners wrong, you should first attempt to understand why they behave the way they do.”

Watson focused his eyes, totally unfazed by the melodramatic response. He rifled through the box and was confused by many of the labels. He hoped to locate hydrogen peroxide, and almost blew a breath of relief when he found it. Sally didn’t react strangely, so he continued. The blood was wiped away with a doused cotton ball, making the wound fizz and bubble, and Watson searched for a bandage of some sort.

“The plasters and wraps are in the top.” Sally thankfully directed.

“Thanks.” Watson replied, and pulled a bandage from underneath the black elastic and stared at its packaging.

Holmes noticed right away and swooped in. “So, this Holmes fellow. What’s he like? And how are you so educated with him?”

Watson managed to open the wax and stared down at the strange, soft item in his hands.

“Lestrade insists on bringing him on every interesting case we get. It got old really fast.”

He turned it over to see more wax paper. He lifted one of the flaps to find adhesive and his brows almost furrowed.

“Did it really?” Holmes queried.

“Yeah. He as some sort of ‘superpower’ and knows everything. He offends a lot of people with it. He’s only got one friend, and he’s only charming when he wants to manipulate someone.”

“Sounds like someone I know.” Watson said absentmindedly, finally reaching success with the bind, sticking it over the cut and started to use the gauze.

“I’m charming all the time unless I don’t like an individual’s attitude.” Holmes bounced back defensively, unable to help himself. His companion shot him a look that said ‘Undercover, remember?’ and pushed Holmes’ ankle out of his lap.

“If he were here right now, he’d probably be on about how one of you is cheating on your husband or whatever.” Donnovan huffed.

The two men snapped their heads up and looked at each other.

“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to assume anything… You just seem like the type to have husbands...” she muttered apologetically. “Well, you’re all fixed up. You should prob-“

“He solves crimes for you?” Holmes interrupted.

Sally glanced back at him. “Uhm. Yeah. He mostly gets involved with people who contact him by themselves, but whenever it’s a case he’s says we’re ‘too stupid to solve on our own,’ he takes us over completely.”

“Where might you find a way to contact this man?” asked Holmes. Watson ran through a list in his head titled _Reasons Why This Is a Bad Idea_.

“Well, I have his cell phone number if-“

                “Address?”

                “Er. Well, 221B Baker Street.” She replied.

                Watson felt as if he was going to faint. “Excellent. Thank you very much.”

                Holmes stood quickly and hurriedly sped out of the building despite the gash on his ankle, Watson being dragged by an invisible rope behind him. “Holmes, they’re on a case, remember? And I don’t think this is even remotely an acceptable idea. This could be so _very_ bad.”

                “You are right to some degree; they are on a case, which means we will just have to wait for them.” Holmes replied, heading in the direction of ‘home’ if it was still in the same space.

                “You aren’t listening to me. This is a _bad_ idea. It’s completely dangerous, and they’ll most definitely be upset by… whatever the hell is going on.” Watson replied.

                “Well, my counterpart sounds very much like me, and I’m handling this situation fairly well, don’t you think?” Holmes bounded between people on the pavement.

                “Okay, maybe, but what’s the point of going to them? What would it do for either party?” Watson asked, almost falling over his colleague who stopped in front of him.

                “Watson, what if there are four of us? Sherlock and I alone would probably be able to solve… whatever this is. If the other John Watson is as clever as you, the four of us would be unstoppable, finishing this very quickly. This entire thing would just become a memory and we’d be on our way in record time. It’s a _brilliant_ idea.” Replied Holmes.

                “We don’t even know why we’re _here_ let alone how to get back! It’s-“

                “The best reason to follow through with it. Two detectives, two doctors, it will amazing and-“

                “Absolutely irrational.” Watson finished indignantly. He still followed Holmes.

                “Precisely.”

                Within the hour, they reached 221B Baker Street.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the universe first came about, gravity didn’t pull particles together- it reversed and instead repelled everything from each other, creating endless universes. 
> 
> Oh, and Sherlock and John have a domestic while Holmes and Watson pretty much are like "Amateurs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watson and Holmes are Jude Law and Robert Downey Jr, for the most part. A few things are changed from the movies and their characters are partly based upon the books, then there's some of it I made up myself, because fuck you, this is my fic. Sherlock and John are Blenderdick Cupboardlatch and the one who should have stayed in the shire.
> 
> Also, I apologize for any wrongness in the historical parts and the theory. Please forgive me.
> 
> It gets really mushy at the end because I wanted to close up this chapter, and I had no idea how to do it. For the same reason, there are probably a lot of typos and a bit poorly written towards the end.

The wait was practically unbearable. Watson and Holmes sat on the doorstep of 221B for hours. Holmes managed to keep himself entertained with his mind, thinking deeply about the entirety of their situation while Watson suffered from extreme boredom, having exhausted himself with their predicament. His processes were not as advanced as Holmes’ and as a result, found no way to progress to a new stage of solving the problem they were currently in. Pensiveness took over Holmes as it always did. Watson wanted to sleep, but agitation and excitement overflowed and kept him from doing so.

                A cab pulled up to the curb and let the two men that inhabited it out. They caught sight of the figures sitting on their step, blocking the pathway.

                “Ah, you must be Sherlock Holmes!” Holmes cried, approaching his counterpart with an extended hand. Watson knew better than to ask how he knew which one was Sherlock, but wondered silently, anyway.

                “Yes, and I’m afraid that whatever you have to say will wait until tomorrow morning. It’s past my bed time, apparently.” Sherlock responded bitterly, glancing at John, who only tutted.

                “Sherlock, really. You were supposed to at least _nap_ earlier, and you didn’t even do that. Seventy-six hours without sleep is unhealthy, no matter how much you insist that you’re ‘working better than usual.’ On top of that, you haven’t eaten in days, no thanks to Lestrade’s double case he put you on.” John sighed at him. “Yes, I’m sorry. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. Please don’t email or call him; he’ll end up depriving himself of more sleep if whatever you have to say is interesting.” John addressed Holmes.

                “No, this is very important and it must be brought to his immediate attention.” Holmes interjected. “My friend and I are in a predicament.”

                “Sorry, but tomorrow.” John shuffled past Watson on the stair, dragging Sherlock with him and fishing out a key.

                “Please, I’m not a child, John. Don’t hover. My body is quite able to handle-“

                “You should listen to him, you know; he’s a doctor.” Watson interrupted the snapping Sherlock, feeling sympathy towards John. He knew exactly how difficult managing a Sherlock Holmes could be.

                “Of course,” Sherlock said dryly, narrowing his eyes at the sitting doctor. John opened the door and Sherlock followed him in. “Goodnight, gentlemen. I have previously addressed activities I am to attend.” His voice changed into a completely different tone to accommodate his new want for rest, obviously not appreciating Watson’s interjection. John shook his head at the childish play, knowing Sherlock only changed his mind to reject the sitting man.

                He began to shut the door, but Holmes lodged his hand and a foot in between it and the frame. “Really, I think that this cannot wait until tomorrow morning.” Sherlock shot Holmes a warning look; Holmes rolled his eyes and scoffed in response. “If you do not let me in through the _door_ , I will make my way in by some other option. It would save us all the trouble if you simply let us discuss our situation.”

                Sherlock’s verdigris eyes peered into Holmes’ dark brown ones and finally responded. “You have two minutes. The instant I get bored, you leave.”

                John made a huffing noise at Sherlock, but was quieted by a sideways glance. Watson stood and loomed over his companion’s shoulder, shooting a small apologetic ‘thank you’ smile at the men on the other side of the threshold. A line of tension was almost visible between the four of them, setting an expected tone for the evening. Sherlock flitted up the steps and the other three followed. Watson glanced wearily at their surroundings, slightly put off by the change of the layout of the building. The room that they used as a community living space (what was once Holmes’ bedroom) was significantly smaller, though the style was in a familiar fashion. The wallpaper and carpet matched the vintage look of the fireplace, but modern items littered the area. It seemed an appropriate mix to Watson, given their current situation. Holmes immediately made himself comfortable, perching in the chair closest to the windows. It reminded Watson of a cat: indifferent to the surroundings and restlessly trying to settle in a comfortable position. The modern men were hanging coats and outerwear on the hooks near the door they entered when Sherlock turned and spied Holmes. The “older” doctor smirked to himself in eagerness to witness the battle of wits that would ensue. Holmes picked up the violin that sat on the end table next to the chair. Sherlock’s face contorted into a horrified expression, and Watson took every ounce of his remaining energy and inserted it into keeping his face completely devoid of emotion. John turned in time to see Holmes pluck at the strings, mirroring his companion’s demeanor.

                “That is _my_ _violin_.” Sherlock retorted indignantly through gritted teeth, obviously trying to keep himself in control.

                “So it would seem. Thank you for your deduction, though I am sure you can do much better than that.”

                “Put it down.” Sherlock growled warningly.

                Holmes smirked and stared at Sherlock with defiance. Watson made an attempt to diffuse the argument, quickly changing his mind and sensing that it would become more than just trivial word-spitting. “They’ll never help us if you-,“ Holmes retrieved the bow from where the violin sat moments earlier. “ If you –piss- -him- -off.” Watson grew louder and increasingly more punctuated. His partner did not drop Sherlock’s gaze. Angry notes exploded from the strings of the instrument held in his hand.

The man feet away from him marched forward just as catlike as the one in the chair that stood and strode away, playing faster as he went. He could hear John muttering calming words to Sherlock, though they took no effect. Sherlock broke into a full sprint at Holmes when he stopped playing and began plucking again, running as well. He could feel the predictions vibrating off of the two, guessing the others every move. They danced in an out of the kitchen, hallway, and common room, weaving through the doorways. Holmes treated it as a game, finding great amusement in the challenge he faced. It was obvious that Sherlock grew increasingly impatient with his double.  Watson was aware of their chances draining away with Sherlock’s tolerance and put an end to the aggravation.

“HOLMES!” He bellowed.

“What?!” the two stopped and answered back, one with a furious tone and the other innocently.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes once again and opened his mouth, immediately cut off by Holmes. “Yes, that is also my name.” Watson shot a glance in his direction that told him to continue talking. He handed back the violin. “I… apologize; I couldn’t resist.”

Sherlock accepted the stringed instrument. “And your first name?”

Holmes continued confidently. “Well, my companion is John Watson and I am Sherlo-“

“It is not uncommon for a man to be named John. It is still not uncommon for that John to be an army doctor.” Sherlock placed the violin on the table it originally sat on. “Even still, though strange, it is not rare for him to hold the last name ‘Watson.’ But _I_ am the _only_ Sherlock Holmes, so who are you? Really.” Sherlock spun off.

“Would you like for me to manipulate you? Or would you like me to be honest? Because I’m sure you will deduce if I am doing either and not be convinced by my truth.” Holmes countered just as fast.

“The truth,” John asked before Sherlock could answer. “What kind of game are you playing?”

“It is no game; Watson and I haven’t the slightest idea of how we came to be here. We awoke in a large rubbish bin,” Holmes explained nonchalantly. “London seems quite a bit different from our day.”

“Your day?” John asked, a look of incredulousness seeping out. “Neither of you can honestly be much older than I am. I grew up around here, and it’s really not changed.”

Watson shot Holmes a withering look; the both of them knew that the whole truth would be entirely upsetting and sound like a fantasy. Before Waston could pull his partner away to discuss it for the fiftieth time, Holmes spoke without faltering.

“We believe it to be time travel. Possibly another world of some sort, given our persons.”

The four men stood silently, awkwardness making its way into the two doctors as the detectives stared directly at each other. John’s face was blank, save shock, which was only there subtly, hiding in his features. He was completely frozen.

John moved, making to push the two guests out. “No. Absolutely not. You know what? You need to leave. Don’t bother coming back tomorrow.” The small man huffed.

“John.” Sherlock interrupted quietly, stopping his flat mate.

“No.” he replied, knowing where it was going.

“John, it’s not imposs-“

“No.” he repeated sternly, quirking his eyebrows.

Sherlock nearly begged in his hushed whisper. “They’re not _lying_. It’s written all over them!”

“No. They’re two blokes poking fun at you. They’ve obviously know how you work and-“ John’s speech was cut short and he almost toppled over. Sherlock saw John distracted with the other two men and took the opportunity to grab him and drag him into his bedroom quickly and forcefully.

“Sherlock,” John began again, straightening his jumper and resisting the urge to rub the pain out of his chest and shoulder. “Time travel? Honestly? And the whole ‘alternate universe’? What would that be about?”

“It’s not impossible,” he retorted, repeating himself. “Scientists have entertained time travel and alternate-“ Sherlock stopped himself at the incredulous look he was shot. “Anyway, they definitely play the Victorian part well, right down to the way they stand,” Sherlock babbled excitedly. “And Holmes? His entirety _screams_ of Sherlock. He’s different, sure, but so would anyone from another time period. No one but you would be able to embody me so well, and even then, you’d miss some things. Not to mention Watson,” He was pacing now. “His chemistry with Holmes! Oh yes, the-“ Sherlock stopped awkwardly and turned to John. “We have to take this case; it’s too interesting for me to even _attempt_ to forget it.”

“No.” John repeated for the fourth time.

Sherlock straightened and politeness colored his tone. “John, while I appreciate your concern, I am doing this. I am an adult and I will make my own decisions.”

“Right,” John stared directly at Sherlock with a blank expression, licking his lips, irritation bubbling in his chest. “So, I should treat you like an adult when they eventually make it clear that they’re having you on instead of like a small child? Because I’m sure that’s how you’ll react.” He spat dryly.

Sherlock removed any trace of emotion from his face, excitement wiped out of his body. “Thank you, doctor.” He clipped out, turning on his heel. John sighed and followed his companion.

“Come back tomorrow morn- Oh.” Sherlock began and stopped immediately with realization seeping into his entire demeanor. “I believe you need a place to stay?”

John practically flinched at the implication Sherlock was giving; it was possibly to get back at him.

The other two men turned from their own quiet discussion to respond. “Yes, that might be a problem.” Holmes answered, his brain turning over the new information he was given. He could feel Watson tense next to him.

“I would like for the two of you to stay here.” Sherlock insisted simply, turning towards the kitchen with every intention to boil water. John stepped in front of him, though, and sent a glare full of daggers.

“You do realize that I live here, too, yeah? I have a say in this as well.”

Sherlock stepped around John and puttered around the room. “If it’s a problem, why don’t you visit Sarah? Maybe you’ll actually get her to agree with sex this time. Though the chances of that are slim; you’ll end up on her sofa for the third time this month.” He turned from the sink back with a smug look.

John’s face became blank, refusing to rise to the bait- though he wanted to say that the only reason John ended up on her couch instead of bed is because he showed up to leave the sometimes taxing environment of 221B and its inhabitants, not to get off. “Mrs. Hudson put both our names on the lease, Sherlock. It’s a joint rent: this flat is just as much _mine_ as it is yours, no matter how convinced you are that everything belongs to you.”

“That’s funny, because just the other day, you stayed on the couch for hours and impeded my progress on how the cushion fluff in our sofa reacts to different types of talcum powder. How is that fair to me? And the dishes of mould I had? If I recall, you threw those out.” Sherlock snapped back and slammed the kettle on the cluttered table.

“It was my _day off_ , and it was an honest mistake. They were bowls of food you ordered. I assumed you left them accidentally, because you, Sherlock Holmes, never eat and just let food go bad. You do do that, you know.” John practically shouted back.

“How many times do we have to have this conversation before you understand?!” Sherlock continued with his rant as the two guests watched from the sitting room with experience of having a domestic with a roommate.

“How long do you think this will last?” Watson asked under his breath as John spun around in a shout after turning his back to attempt to ignore his best friend.

“A few minutes at most. John will probably leave as to not hit him. Excellent choice, I would say. I’m sure once he loses his temper, it’s hard to find again,” Holmes replied, examining the sitting room thoroughly and walking to the mantle. “Skull’s a nice touch. Watson, could you tell me the history of this?” He commented and smiled back at Watson, who promptly walked over the took the skull in his hands.

“Male in his late thirties. Caucasian.” _Smack._ John pounded the table with his open palm. “Was hit in the face frequently. The bone has broken and mended many times in different areas. Boxer?” Watson explained.

“Possibility, but look- he has all of his teeth, or at least what are supposed to be. This is a false tooth, is it not? Not real bone?” Holmes questioned back, pointing at one of the front teeth.

Watson raised his eye brows. A mug clattered on the tile behind the two of them. “I suppose it is.”

“Not many people choose to be a boxer when they have the means to replace teeth,” Holmes pointed at another spot. “Look here. Is that from chipping?”

“Looks like… from a piece of metal.” Watson frowned.

“A soldier? How old would you say this is?”

“Ten years, maybe?”

“I am going to assume that war is nastier now than it was where we came from.”

“I thought you never assume?” Watson teased as he heard a crash, table and all. The two turned from the mantle and towards the kitchen. Papers were scattered all over the floor, drenched in water from the kettle. Sherlock and John sent venomous stares at each other that were unsettling.

“You’re always so over dramatic.” John spat angrily, steeling his posture to stand his ground.

“Quoting Mary, are we?” Sherlock hissed back.

John’s face fell only very slightly, but it was detected by the other three men. “Don’t-“ but he couldn’t finish his sentence and instead spun around, opening the door and storming down the steps. Immediate regret filled Sherlock’s face, though he composed himself quickly in the midst of Watson and Holmes.

“Right, then,” Sherlock sighed, speaking to the two. “Now that that’s settled, where would you like to begin?”

Watson wanted to know something desperately. “This John Watson also has a Mary?”

“Unimportant. We need to figure how to return.” Holmes interrupted as he stared back at Sherlock, who obviously didn’t want to answer the question. Holmes knew the truth, of course he did. He deduced it almost immediately; he wanted to keep it tamped down for the sake of his friend.

 

 

The two Sherlocks discussed the situation thoroughly for hours while Watson sat on the couch, adding something every once in a while. He dozed a few times accidentally, fighting against his need for sleep. He eventually fell asleep fully and woke to the sun brightly intruding in on his face. The two were still chatting across from each other in the chairs next to the fireplace. He sighed and leaned forward.

“Have either of you got an idea of what happened?” He asked, staring curiously at the laptop in front of him on the coffee table.

Sherlock looked at him with excitement and exasperation. “Alan Guth,” he began.  “Is the creator of a theory that has to do with parallel universes. He states that when the universe first came about, gravity didn’t pull particles together- it reversed and instead repelled everything from each other, creating endless universes. He calls it a ‘false vacuum.’ Given that everything is constantly expanding, this is the most feasible possibility.”

Watson nodded. “And to fix it?” Sherlock’s face dropped considerably.

“Unfortunately, nobody’s really got any actual idea on how to jump. Theories of course, but no proof, if you rightly disbelieve the ones who said they did it and came back. It’s improbable that they were to come back by the same methods, as parallel universes are _parallel_ for a reason. There are hundreds of ways to get there and there are probably hundreds of _thousands_ of ways to get back, and they’re all theories and by no means definite ways to do it.”

“And how do you figure? Where did you get this information?” Watson questioned. He really did wonder how he seemed so educated when only hours before he was completely baffled on where to start with the topic.

“Internet,” He answered simply and nodded towards the laptop on the coffee table. A blank face was all he got in response. “It’s like a library compiled of things from around the world you can look through with typing, but instantly instead of doing so manually. It’s quite useful.”

“That sounds dangerous, to give so many people that type of power.” Watson replied, thinking of leaders abusing the access.

“It’s not some sort of all-knowing object. It’s merely people sharing what they know. Anything of _actual_ danger is wiped out almost instantly by governments.” Sherlock shrugged and pulled out his mobile.

“Another question: what’s-“

“A phone.”

“Oh.” Watson breathed and felt very sick. The phones he knew of were much larger and hardly had any typing abilities. “Holmes?” No response; he was in a pensive state.

“What can _you_ tell me?” Sherlock asked, giving his full attention to the doctor.

“About?”

“Yourself. I want to compare you to John,” Sherlock stated as he rose and stepped over the coffee table. He sat on it directly in front of his audience. “I’m already aware of Mary existing, but tell me about her. Siblings? Obviously a soldier, but tell me a few stories. I see you use a cane, as well. What’s that about?”

“Slow down. You’re easily excitable, more so than than him.” Watson flicked his chin at Holmes. “Mary? She’s a lovely wife. I met her on a case. Jewels she was supposed to have, but were stolen and dropped into the bottom of the Thames. Asked her to marry me right then, which surprises a lot of people, as I had plenty of practise, if you’d understand,” Sherlock nodded at the smiling man, storing the information. He used present tense; Watson’s Mary was still alive. “I had a brother- Harry.”

“Was he an alcoholic?” Sherlock asked, unaware that he hit a nerve in the doctor.

“He was, yes. I’m assuming his brother drinks?” Watson inquired, unsure of what to call his counterpart.

“Sister, and yes.”

“Sister?” he raised his eyebrows and Sherlock nodded. “Well, I was in the Army for a long time. Shot in the leg, which is why I have the cane. It doesn’t bother me much, just when the seasons change.”

“John was shot in the shoulder. He had a psychosomatic limp in the same leg you were shot.”

“A what?”

“Psychosomatic." John appeared in the doorway of the sitting room, leaning against the frame. "Means you imagine it, for the most part, though it might actually have real twitches. Mostly from trauma, which I had quite a bit of.” He crossed over to stand next to Sherlock. “You’re a doctor, too?”

Holmes answered the question. “Yes. One of London’s finest, at least for us.” He was still staring off into space, but seemed more aware of his surroundings. “Mycroft is always trying to get his hands on him, but that will not happen. I won’t allow it.”

“That’s the truth.” John muttered under his breath, spinning towards the kitchen.

“I assume he meddles quite a bit, then?” Sherlock asked and watched John.

Holmes let confusion carry in his face. “Meddling is hardly the word I’d use. He merely wishes me the best.”

“That’s meddling to him, though there have been times where he over stepped.” John commented after turning the table back on all fours.

Sherlock let his distaste fill the room. “I cannot stand him.”

“Nonsense; I love my brother.” Holmes looked just as appalled as Sherlock.

“John?” Watson called and the other doctor snapped his head up from his crouched position on the floor next to the dried papers. “Your Mary? What…?”

John opened his mouth and returned his attention to the papers at his feet. “She’s… not in my life anymore.” Watson nodded, knowing that he shouldn’t push further. He also felt a pang of fear and hurt jump through him. _Will the same happen to us?_ He wondered. “Do you write the cases down?”

“Yes, I do, actually.” Watson grinned at himself.

“He’s terrible.” Holmes clarified, standing and walking around the room in a circuit, letting his eyes fall on every object.

 “Good to see that that’s the same.” Sherlock remarked with a smile shot at John, who rolled his eyes.  He stood, grabbed his violin, and took to the window at the back of the flat. He started playing and the doctors admired the skill, having been used to the beautiful serenading. Holmes kept the criticism to himself.

After a long song, John joined Watson on the sofa and traded stories and facts about themselves. Mostly, they were the same with small variations and differences, though some were completely backwards.

“Your appendix exploded?” Watson asked and a look of curiosity over took him.

John nodded. “When I was ten. Fell out of a tree, and I landed right on it. It would have done so sooner or later, but aggravating it made it happen then. Broke my arm, too.”

“I have never broken a bone in my life.” He replied, leaning away from John.

The detectives did the same, except they deduced most of the facts without the backstory. All in all, the four were not mirror images of each other, but more so reflections on water; practically identical with some rippling feature that set them apart. The John-Sherlock relationship was mother-child with a tendency to have a closeness achieved only by people who weren’t close with family and let complete strangers in and made them the center of their world, while Watson-Holmes represented a bond achieved by very close brothers who came to depend on each other much more than intended for not the first time. However different these relationships were, they had shared similarities, including the most important thing: dependency. John Watson was Sherlock Holmes’ conduction and Sherlock Holmes was John Watson’s light.


End file.
